Growing Pains
by Freya'sDaughter
Summary: Our favorite Berkian teens are drawing near to adulthood. In this tragicomic tale of domestic scope and intimate proportions, they will race dragons, deal with family woes, misunderstand jokes, and take tentative steps toward love and marriage. Set two years before HTTYD 2, mild spoilers for same.
1. Chapter 1

**_Greetings! See the bottom of the page for a decently lengthy author's note._**

**_oooo_**

Prologue the First

The morning after the dragons took his wife, the Chief of Berk lifted his shrieking son from his cradle and wrapped him up clumsily in swaddling blankets. Tucking the babe into the crook of his arm, he started down the hill into the village, picking his way carefully down the path, avoiding slick patches of ice and chunks of charred debris.

The place was a mess, as was typical after a dragon attack. Most of the houses sported gaping holes, scorch marks, trampled gates and outbuildings, or any combination of the above. Villagers jogged to and fro, carrying tools and shingles or chasing escaped livestock. The rebuilding wouldn't take too long—the horrid weather mandated speed, and years of dragon attacks had resulted in a system for dealing with the damage that was both rapid and effective. Such adaptation had been necessary; the other option was to leave.

Scarcely a single inhabitant of Berk considered that second idea anymore, though, and if they did, they kept it to themselves. The very thought was cowardly, a betrayal of the efforts of all the generations past. If rebuilding was good enough for their forefathers, it was good enough for them. So they stayed, year after year, and roundly cursed the dragons to each other as they hiked into the forest to chop down more trees.

Stoick took a deep breath and knocked on the door of the Ingerman cottage. It had been relatively undamaged in the raid, and he was glad. It made him feel less guilty about the request he was about to make. The door was soon opened by the mistress of the house. She was a large, blond, buxom lass, with a friendly round face and a wide, smiling mouth, and she had a large, blond baby son of her own, born in the same season as Stoick's. As she pulled the door open wider, he saw the baby balanced on her hip, drooling and chewing with enthusiasm on a stuffed toy that looked as if it had once resembled a Gronckle. Though born a month after Stoick's son, he was already nearly twice as big.

"Chief!" said the girl. She appeared surprised that he was there, but then she noticed the tiny, squalling bundle in his possession and her smile of greeting flattened into a grim, sympathetic line. "Come in. Sorry the house is so untidy," she said.

She needn't have worried herself. Stoick didn't notice much of anything out of order, save perhaps the baby blanket and wooden rattle on the floor. From the iron pot over the fire wafted the smell of bubbling stew. His nostrils detected the sharp tang of onion, underlying the mouth-watering aroma of mutton and savory herbs.

Fishbane Ingerman had picked well, Stoick thought to himself. The girl was pretty—not Stoick's type, but she had a certain plump charm that many Viking men found appealing—she'd given her husband a fine healthy son already, and she could cook. The man must continually bless the gods for the storm that had swept his fishing boat out to sea and landed him on her tribal shore.

"Can I get you anything, Chief? Some ale, perhaps? Sit down, sit down…"

Stoick located a nearby stool and lowered himself down carefully. He jiggled the baby in his arms, hoping to calm him. It would be hard to talk to the girl with his son screaming bloody murder like this.

"No ale, thank you, Termagant," he said. "As much as I'd like to drink myself senseless today…" the words choked him and he didn't continue.

"Of course I understand," the girl said kindly. "I'm going to make herbal tea. You're welcome to have some. And call me Mag."

She sat her cheerful, chubby son down in a pen in the corner; the good humor quickly left his face and he started to howl. Between the two upset infants, the noise in the cottage was deafening. The boy was handed a piece of sweetbread to gnaw on and he shut up immediately.

"That's a good lad, Fishy," she said. "Now keep quiet while I talk to the chief."

"Is he weaned already?" asked Stoick. This could be a problem.

"No, no," said Mag. "He's taken to solids just fine, but he's always hungry so I let him nurse still. My mother always said to give them the breast as long as they'll take it; it makes them big and strong."

"Good," said Stoick. He looked down at his own ginger-haired offspring: he'd arrived several weeks before he was expected, weighing no more than a starving kitten and crying just as feebly. The elders had come up to the house two days after the birth, to inspect the wee lad—one of them had possessed the gall to bring up burial preferences, and at Valka's first desperate sob Stoick had dismissed them all with thinly veiled threats to their safety.

It had, perhaps, not been his most diplomatic moment so far as Chief of Berk. But what could you do?

Eventually they had gotten the baby to take to the breast ("His name is Hiccup," his wife had insisted to the elders, despite their warning not to name him so soon), but it had still been touch and go for a long while. He had spit up constantly and refused to gain weight, and in his fourth week of life he'd caught some kind of infection, Valka staying up night after night rocking him by the fire while he wheezed and struggled in her arms.

He'd survived, though, and for a few months everything had been going more or less all right, though poor Val had never been quite the same since his birth: anxious, her mood unpredictable, and she'd grown more and more obsessed with the impossible idea of making peace between Berk and the dragons that attacked it. And then the unthinkable had happened...

"Here's the tea," said Mag, holding out the steaming mug. Stoick switched the still-wailing Hiccup to his other arm and took it from her.

"Shush," said Stoick at his son, to absolutely no effect.

"Well, he's not a very happy lad, is he?" said the girl. "I bet he's hungry." She took the baby from his father's arm and sat down on another stool next to the hearth. Without so much as blinking, she opened her front, latched him onto her pale breast, and he started to suckle frantically. His tiny hand came up to clutch the fabric of her blouse.

Stoick blushed to his eyeballs but didn't say anything. He didn't want to risk upsetting her, and he was thankful that his son was getting nourishment. Instead he looked down and focused on the mug in his hands. With a wide finger he traced the delicate, foreign design painted onto the ceramic. The lass must have brought it with her when she was married.

He blew on his tea and took a sip. "How's Fishbane?" he asked, over the noise of infant smacking and grunting. From the sound of it, he thought, you'd assume his son had never been fed at all.

"He's well," said Mag. "He's out on the boat, of course. He's planned to be gone for three days; he told me the cod are plentiful for this time of year and he wants to increase our dried reserves. But I'm sure you knew that."

She pried Hiccup's hand loose from its death grip on her blouse and beamed at him.

"You're strong, for such a little mite. Take after your father, eh? Look at those pretty green eyes. You'll be quite the ladykiller when you grow up, won't you?"

Stoick took another sip of tea; it burned on the way down. "You bet your goats he will," he said, his voice rough and painful in his throat. How many times had he assured Valka that their son came from the finest, most hardy stock, as she'd endlessly rocked and cried and prayed?

The big blond girl pulled Hiccup off her breast. She held him upright and patted his back. He burped and she laid him back on her lap and stuck him onto the other breast.

"Chief, you haven't told me why you're here. I think I might be able to guess, though." She felt around the baby's backside and frowned. "You need a change, too, stinky lad."

"You should talk it over with your husband," Stoick offered. "I don't want to burden you. I'll repay you, make sure you have the finest ingredients off the trading ship when it comes—"

"It's fine, it's fine," said the girl, ill at ease for the first time during the visit. "You don't need to—your wife just—"

"Please," said Stoick. "It's the least I can do. I'll bring him by in the mornings, before my first meeting, and get him after supper. I'll make sure you'll have everything you need and then some. It won't be for long, just until he's big enough to wean."

"No hurry," said Mag. "I'll do it for as long as I think he needs it. Poor thing got off to a sad start; he could use a few extra months, probably. Don't worry. I've been making enough milk for two since Fishlegs was born."

"All right," Stoick said, relieved that things had been set up so smoothly. "When shall we begin?"

Mag Ingerman smiled at the Chief of Berk, and gave his son's soft red hair a gentle caress. "I think we've begun already."

oooo

_A/N: Hello, readers. Though it doesn't look like it from the prologue, this story will contain Mystery (for the characters, anyway), Romance, and Terrible Terrors as promised. I've been doing exploratory writing related to the basic story concept for the whole summer (shout out to Foxy'sGirl for a lovely long PM convo in which she assured me the idea didn't suck and we discussed various aspects of the Berkian ecosystem...other than that original exchange, I'm writing the story entirely on my own, and anything that is lame is my fault alone), and in exploring my options I decided to add quite a few more point-of-view characters, and at least one more death, than I'd originally envisioned. _

_I have the first major section of the story written, and will post regularly as long as I can produce new material at a quick enough rate. I'm a pretty slow writer and I edit the daylights out of everything before I post. BTW the character of Fishlegs' mother, while I got her name from the HTTYD wikia, is for all intents and purposes an OC and bears little resemblance to the character in the books. All the other standard disclaimers apply. _

_I'd love any feedback you can offer on this bad boy, because I'll need the encouragement to push through and tie things together at the end in a way that makes sense. XOXO Freya_

**_UPDATE: It's been pointed out to me by one of my lovely and astute readers that Fishlegs is supposed to be a year younger than Hiccup in the canon. Looking at the character designs, though, I find that almost impossible to believe, even if Hiccup's growth spurt is delayed, and for the purposes of this story I decided they needed to be close to the same age, with Astrid a few months younger. I'm already going a little bit AU in giving Fishlegs' mom such a prominent role in Hiccup's life, so... anyway, in terms of the teens' personalities and relationships I'm going to stay as canon as I can while still getting the story to work. Cheers! _**


	2. Chapter 2

**To my lovely and concerned Hiccstrid shippers: chillax. They aren't an official couple as of this point in the story, but by the end they will have...how shall I put it...an "understanding." On with the circus...**

**oooo**

Prologue the Second

_~18 years later~_

The bonfires whooshed and crackled, sending pleasantly sharp-smelling smoke and light bits of ash sailing up into the cool night air. The first snow of the season had just recently fallen: tomorrow would be the first official Dragon Race.

The villagers still held Thawfest every Spring. It was a tradition, after all, and despite their change of attitude toward dragons, Berkians were still wary of altering any of their habits without a solid reason. However, many of them had complained to Stoick over the last few years that they were getting tired of the inevitable Jorgenson victory. Surely, they said, there was some kind of nefarious arrangement at play, and could Stoick come up with an alternative contest that might allow someone else the chance to win?

So the Chief had called a council on the subject; tomorrow they would find out whether the proposed solution was successful.

Now, the obvious candidate to take home the first Dragon Racing trophy was Hiccup, whom the villagers had recently taken to calling (kindly in most cases, though it sure was fun to watch the lad squirm), the Pride of Berk. However, as much as Stoick wanted to see a new winning tradition set with the last name Haddock attached to it, he had guessed such a thing would soon wear out its appeal. Therefore the rules of the game had been designed to include an element of chance, to make the contest more even. It wouldn't be enough to fly the fastest, or to have the best acrobatic tricks. You'd have to be lucky as well, in the right place when the valuable black sheep was released, and be able to fend off the attacks of the other riders, all of whom were permitted to use blunt weapons, their dragons' fire, and even their own body weight if it pleased them.

Everyone was excited about the new idea (except the Jorgensons of course, but their objections had reeked of sour grapes and had not been taken seriously). In anticipatory honor of the occasion, the villagers set up the bonfires and hauled out fish to fry and barrels upon barrels of ale.

Termagant Ingerman sat on a bench next to one of the fires. In her hand she held a poker with fish on it for her three youngest children, turning it slowly over the hot coals, waiting for the flesh to develop just the right amount of drip and sizzle. The children were somewhere close by; she could hear them laughing and shrieking behind her as they ran around playing tag with some of the others. Two more of her children were sitting with her husband on an opposite bench, roasting their own fish.

She had no idea where her eldest was, but it was pointless to get too worked up about his whereabouts. He was a good, dutiful son, and so far he'd always shown up at the end of the day in one piece.

–Which was certainly more than she could say for his skinny auburn-headed friend over there, she thought. She could see the lad sitting a short distance away at another bonfire, holding his fish over the flames and engaged in lively conversation with Astrid Hofferson. He made a sudden, enthusiastic gesture with both hands, and his fish nearly slid off the end of his utensil into the fire. The girl rescued the poker from him and stuck it firmly into the ground, shaking her head in mock exasperation.

_Typical,_ thought Mag. _Get that boy excited, and he stops paying attention to everything around him. "Pride of Berk"—that's rich now; he hasn't changed a bit since he was small. _

_Well, smaller. _Her mind drifted into the past. Whereas the infant Fishlegs had been usually content to sit quietly, an observant blond lump who would cry if you so much as looked at him crossly, Hiccup had been a caregiver's nightmare since the day he started to crawl, making a determined beeline for everything dangerous: the blazing hearth, the steep stairs, the open well. He hadn't begun to walk until he was fifteen months old, and when he finally figured it out he had been clumsy, falling over flat on his face without warning, bumping his head on the corners of tables. And he didn't seem to understand the word "no." He wasn't a bad sort, Mag had told Stoick over and over again, as he started to lose patience with his son over his antics; he was just a curious lad with a lot of energy and no sense of self-preservation.

She'd breastfed the boy for over a year after his mother had died, his daily visits continuing until he'd started to use the word "mama" a little too frequently. Finally she'd told Stoick he'd have to spread the caretaking around to some of the other village families as well as the Ingermans. It had made her sad not to see him every day; she loved the boy almost as much as if he were her own son, but she wasn't his mother, and she'd had her hands full by then with her second child and been pregnant with her third.

She'd kept a close watch on him, though; and for quite a few years he'd preferred to come to her to get his cuts and scrapes bandaged, or when he was feeling miserable with one of the incessant colds that children born premature always seemed to get. Mag had bitten her tongue when he was apprenticed to the nice peglegged man with the smithy full of dangerous tools, and snuck words of (mostly unheeded) wisdom to Stoick in the guise of sympathetic listening as the boy's growth lagged behind that of his peers and the snarkiness of his attitude increased in proportion to their bullying.

…And cried over his pale, mangled body when they'd brought him home from the fight with the monster dragon—the fight that had saved the village but cost him his leg. No, sir, there was no doubt in her mind that Hiccup Haddock had taken more years off her life than her own six children combined.

Fishlegs walked up behind her, then, and sat his massive bulk down on the bench at her side.

"Hi, Mom." He reached a big, soft arm around her shoulders and squeezed. "Are those all for me?" he asked, eyeing the three fish on the poker.

"No, you hungry oaf," she laughed. "They're for the kids. Get your own." She gestured to the basket at her feet.

"I will in a minute," he said.

"Are you excited about tomorrow?"

He shrugged. "I guess. We all know who's going to win, though, don't we? Based on my calculations, taking into account the parameters of the race course and the new rules, referenced against each rider's past performance statistics, I give Hiccup a seventy-three percent chance of winning, followed closely by—"

"I wouldn't be so sure," interrupted Mag. Good gods, her brainiac son was going to analyze them all into an early grave. "They've built a good deal of luck into the game, you know. Keep your eyes peeled, and you might just do all right." She gave him a gentle love tap on the arm. "I believe in you, son. You'll be great."

"Thanks," said Fishlegs. His gaze wandered over to the neighboring fire where Hiccup and Astrid were sitting together on the bench. Hiccup said something to the petite young woman, a mischievous smirk on his freckled face, and over the loud popping of the burning logs Mag could hear the resulting peal of laughter. The last few years had certainly worked wonders on that girl…who'd have guessed there was an actual caring lass hidden beneath that crabby, driven and humorless exterior?

She gave her son a nudge. "Go sit with your friends. You don't want to spend the evening before your victory keeping company with your boring old mother, do you?"

Fish grinned at her. "Always looking out for me, aren't you, Mom." He kissed her cheek and stood up, walked around to the other fire and offered a friendly "Hey" to the two much smaller dragon riders. They scooted over obligingly to make room for him on the bench and Hiccup handed him an extra poker and a fish. Astrid leaned over, greeting him in her sweet, slightly husky voice—Fishlegs' round cheeks grew blotchy, and he looked down and busied himself with attaching his meal securely to the metal stick.

_Hmm_, thought Mag. _So he likes girls after all._

Unbenownst to most of the village, Termagant Ingerman had attained a fair amount of wealth over the years. After Stoick had begun to take Hiccup around to the other families for care, she'd had more time to concentrate on her baking. A shipment of her goods went to Trader Johan every time he came into port, and her breads and pies had proved popular with the other tribes he visited. She'd been saving up the gold and silver pieces she received, knowing her husband would need to provide four nice bride-prices to get good wives for their four sons. Fishlegs was nearly ready for his own home now, they'd decided recently; he was full-grown, smart, and capable. He'd make a fine husband for some lucky lass. Too bad he was so shy. Fishbane and Mag had been scouting for potential future mates for him at the Thing since he was eight years old; his terrified refusal of every girl considered had become something of a running family joke.

_It'll happen when it's meant to happen, I suppose_, Mag decided. You couldn't rush these things.

A small Terrible Terror scampered up and hopped onto the toe of her boot. It stretched out its skinny neck toward her cooking fish, mouth open wide. She shook her foot violently to dislodge it.

"No," she said sternly. "That is not for you." It growled at her and started to huff and puff, so she opened up the basket of raw fish and tossed one into its tiny gullet. It gurbled happily and flapped off. At least there was only one this time, she thought. A pack of the little creatures could be rather intimidating, and they were everywhere these days. Damned villagers thought they were cute and kept giving them treats, without bothering to take them in hand and train them properly. Maybe she could speak to Stoick about it after the race festivities were concluded.

Or she could talk to Hiccup. He was already the one they typically deferred to when it came to the dragons. She had seen Stoick looking at his son pensively in recent days, his hand stroking his graying beard in contemplation, and she guessed he was increasingly occupied by thoughts of naming and grooming his eventual successor. She wouldn't bother the boy tonight, though. It wouldn't be nice to burden him with something of this nature, trivial as it was, so shortly before the race; knowing Hiccup, his mind would seize upon it and keep him awake all night trying to find a solution, and he'd appear in the arena in the morning looking as though he'd communed with the draugr _[1]._

Hoark came around then, carrying tankards full of ale. He offered them to the three teens. Fishlegs and Astrid each took one. Hiccup waved away the tankard held out to him, smiling apologetically.

"No, thanks," Mag heard him reply. "I have to be up early tomorrow, don't you know."

He glanced sideways at Astrid. "And so do you guys. Are you sure you want to drink that? You two are going to be hung over and get your tails kicked by yours truly, or worse, by Snotlout."

Astrid responded by tipping up her ale and chugging it. She slapped the empty receptacle down on the bench and smacked her lips.

"Ahh," she said, "that was delicious. I won't be hung over, you'll see. And even if I am, Stormfly and I can still win. We're just that good." Hiccup's brows came together in a mild, disappointed frown but he didn't say anything. Fishlegs took a sip of his own ale and looked off to the side at one of the other fires.

"Think I'll turn in," said Hiccup finally. He got up from the bench and handed his half-eaten fish to Fishlegs. "See you in the morning."

He walked by Mag's seat on his way out, stopping to rest his hand on her shoulder.

"Aren't you going to wish me luck, Aunt Mag?" he said. She wasn't his aunt, of course, but he'd been an affectionate child and she'd seen little reason he shouldn't call her something of the sort, after _mama _had been withheld from him.

"Do you need it?" she responded cheekily. "By the way, don't you even think of throwing this race. I want to see Spitelout Jorgenson crying like a wee bairn."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Hiccup in a lofty tone, and patted her shoulder. "I would never dream of doing such a thing."

She pressed his thin hand warmly with her plump one. "Good night, lad," she said. "Sleep well, and make sure your father goes to bed also. He tends to become over-excited about these things—I know because of the dark circles he gets under his eyes every Thawfest."

"I'll try," said Hiccup. "Good night, Aunt Mag." He walked off into the darkness toward the Chief's house, his loyal reptilian friend falling in beside him like a scaly shadow.

Mag turned her attention back to her roasting fish. They were nearly ready, and she was about to call out the names of her offspring when she heard the formerly playful, childish laughter behind her turn to screeching. It often did—foolish kids just never seemed to know when enough was enough. The high pitch suggested it was probably her youngest. She grunted a bit in annoyance; she had hoped they had reached the point where the family could get through at least one village festival meal without either Mag or her husband having to throw an upset child over a shoulder and take him or her home to cool off.

She looked over and caught Fishbane's eye, and the man lowered his chin and looked at her with an expression that said _It's your turn, dear. _She sighed, then stood up, propped the poker with the fish on it against the bench and stalked off to discover and police whatever minor emergency had arisen.

oooo

_[1] Note to the history buffs: I take a decent amount of authorial license with regard to the Viking culture aspect of HTTYD. Please don't be mad, they have horns on their helmets for crying out loud. Anyway: Draugr are the exceedingly yucky undead, who reside in burial mounds and come out to mess with people._


	3. Chapter 3

Wake Up Calls, Part One

The Terrible Terrors woke Hiccup at dawn with their gurgling. Again.

His eyelids cracked open and he squinted into the dimness of his bedroom before groaning, turning to his stomach and pulling his pillow over his head to block out the racket. He hadn't yet made up his mind which way of waking up he preferred: the Terrors' blasphemous morning hymn, more warbly and off key than any children's chorus ever assembled on Berk; or the crashing and scraping of Toothless knocking shingles off the roof.

At least he'd eventually been able to convince Toothless to wait until after Hiccup had eaten something before demanding their morning ride.

The cacophony grew in volume as more of the small beasties landed on the roof, and above it Hiccup recognized the shrill quaver of his own Terror, Sharpshot. The dragon he'd trained for the competition-that-wasn't-a-competition never came around anymore, except to assault Hiccup's ears in the morning with his singing; he'd left Hiccup's house for Gothi's as soon as he (Hiccup was pretty sure it was a he) had discovered her liberality in dispensing treats.

_Shoot_, he thought. He couldn't sleep in this morning, regardless of the noise level: it was the day of the dragon race. He pushed back the covers, yawned, stretched, and pulled on the tunic and leggings he had set out next to his bed the night before. His chin and lower lip had long since discovered the hard way that hopping on one foot to go retrieve clothing while groggy was a bad idea.

Once his clothes were on, he reached for his prosthetic where it sat propped against the side of his bed. His fingertips brushed it, pushing it away by accident, and he lunged for it awkwardly as it tipped over toward the floor.

"For the love of…" He put it down firmly next to him on the bed and rubbed his hands together to massage away the stiffness in his fingers before continuing. It took him a few tries in the cold of his upstairs bedroom to get the top strap of the prosthetic through the fitting and secured on the other side, and he huffed in annoyance. He'd have thought that after three years of wearing it and making adjustments, he could put the thing on in his sleep. He felt a bit worried to find himself so uncoordinated on the day of a contest, but comforted himself with the thought that bad run-throughs were followed on occasion by good performances.

He started down the stairs, pulling the most recent version of his flight harness on and tying the sides. Nearing the ground floor, he was surprised to see his father already awake, dressed, and rooting in the icebox with his large meaty hands.

"You're up early, Dad…usually you sleep right through the morning serenade," he remarked.

Stoick pulled out a bowl of eggs, closed the icebox and removed an iron skillet from its hook on the wall.

"Morning, son!" he said, his voice still carrying a bit of gravel from sleep. "I wanted to make you a nice breakfast, to prepare you for the race later. You can't perform well on an empty stomach, you know!"

"Aw, come on, Dad, you don't have to do that, I'm used to making things for myself. I'm not that hungry anyway, and I want to go get ready with Toothless—"

"You're not getting out of here that easily, lad. Sit down," Stoick said in his powerful bass.

You didn't argue with the Chief of Berk when he sounded like that. Stoick's voice was deep and grumbly and commanded instant respect. Hiccup had spent the first fifteen years of his life trying to resist its power, to be heard himself, while at the same time ironically and desperately wishing for its tone to convey something other than disappointment.

Hiccup had complained about his own voice to Astrid once, but she had just smacked him on the arm and told him to stop being so insecure. That was Astrid for you; he'd never known anyone with less apparent tolerance for self-pity.

Stoick tossed a few sticks onto the fire in the hearth and poked it to set it going. He began cracking eggs into the skillet, cursing softly as the first one broke in his enormous palm.

"Are you looking forward to the race, son?" he asked.

"Sure," Hiccup said. "Somebody's got to take gloating privileges away from the Jorgensons, right?"

He went over to the table and slouched into one of the accompanying seats, crossing his left leg over his right. He swung it back and forth casually, letting his metal foot click against the lower rung of the chair.

The sound brought Stoick's attention up from the meal preparation, and the skin around his eyes tightened slightly.

"Sit _up_, son," he said, "for the love of Thor. You already spend enough time crouched on the back of that Night Fury, and it's ruining your posture. A chief needs to be able to stand straight and tall; it makes it easier to keep people's attention."

"Good thing I'm not the chief, then," Hiccup said flippantly, but to avoid upsetting his father further, he uncrossed his legs, put his foot down on the floor and pushed his shoulders back. "Don't know how much I can do about that whole 'tall' thing. I'm trying, though—at least, my legs are, anyway. I've had to readjust my saddle setup three times in the last half year because of it. Aren't you proud?"

"I'd be happier about it if you hadn't woken me up in the middle of the night recently, coming home from the forge," Stoick said. "Instead of messing with your flight gear, maybe you could fix the squeak in the front door."

"I'll look at it," Hiccup promised. "After the race."

"I'm sure you will," replied Stoick. He picked up another egg. "Better watch out for Astrid today. She was gaining on you quick, near the end of the last Thawfest games. I don't know what she's been feeding that dragon of hers, but it's making me nervous."

"Chicken," said Hiccup. "Stormfly gets chicken. I'm surprised you didn't know that by now. I think it only works on Nadders, though. Sorry."

"Really," said Stoick, and looked at the egg in his hand. He cracked it into the skillet and tossed the shell into the nearby compost basket.

"Then again," he continued, "maybe you'd prefer to be chasing Astrid's backside, rather than the other way around, eh? She's grown into quite the attractive lass, I must say, though from what I hear, she's not the most domestic-minded girl on the island. But that's all right, your dear mother wasn't either, and we didn't starve."

Stoick was quiet for a moment, as if lost in memory, then he brightened and said, "At any rate, you're both old enough now, I could speak to her fath—"

"Whoa, wait, it's too early in the morning for this," said Hiccup, eyes widening.

But his father pressed on: "—and she likes you, son, I can tell. I've seen how she gives you a hand up when you need it, and how her eyes follow you—"

"What?" Hiccup protested, "no she doesn't, I mean, they don't! I mean, can't we talk about this later?"

Stoick affixed him with a calm stare that indicated no escape was possible.

"Look," Hiccup said. "We're friends and all, and I like her, I always have, but I don't think she wants to get married. As in, ever. You've seen what she does to Snotlout when he suggests anything, the guy's lucky he can still have kids someday—"

Stoick snorted and said, "You're not Snotlout, son, she didn't ever kiss him in front of the whole village, did she now? All I'm suggesting is that you think it over, and soon. Like any smith, you know you should strike while the iron's hot. And I want grandchildren to carry on the family line, I'd like to see them at least half grown, Odin willing, before I pass on—"

"Okay, okay," Hiccup cut him off. He placed his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand, feeling the beginnings of a headache twinge behind his eyes.

"Just—okay. Fine, I'll think about it. But—I need her help with the Academy, Dad, I don't want to say the wrong thing and make things weird between us. I want to be sure she likes me enough to marry me before I do anything to ruin it. Deal?"

"Sure, son, good luck with that," said Stoick. "I've yet to discover a way to find out for certain what a woman actually thinks about anything. Just know that you might eventually have to take a risk and ask her flat out if she wants your affection. You're a danger-courting sort of lad—I'm sure it won't be hard for you."

He ignored Hiccup's look of skepticism and picked up the last egg. It slipped from his grasp and smashed into the pan. He reached into the raw sticky goop with sausage-sized fingers, fishing for pieces of broken eggshell.

"Speaking of breeding," he said, and held up his other hand before Hiccup could object. "I'm talking about dragons, now, get your mind out of the bedroom."

Hiccup could feel his face heating in frustration, but his father had already turned away and was cooking the eggs over the hearth, stirring them vigorously with a wooden spoon.

"Another youngster got bitten by a Terrible Terror last night," he said. "At the bonfire celebration. It was the Ingermans' youngest—what's his name, again?"

"Eelnose," said Hiccup flatly, and wondered why adults so frequently forgot the names of each other's children.

"Anyway," said Stoick, "that makes three kids this week—"

"Four." Hiccup pulled up his sleeve to reveal the mostly-healed welt on his arm. "One of them came after me a few days ago out of the blue, while I was collecting dragon nip on the other end of Berk. Don't know what his problem was."

"There are too many of them," said Stoick, "they've been breeding like…well, like Terrors, and they're getting aggressive. I want to and your friends to find a way to deal with the population explosion before more children are hurt. All right?" He put the skillet with the cooked eggs down on a flat stone on the table in front of Hiccup.

"I'll try," said Hiccup. He picked up a fork and speared a bite of eggs. "I'll talk to them today and set up a meeting for some time after the race."

"Thank you, son," said Stoick. "Please do work on it. If you can't figure anything out, we'll have to call a general council—"

Hiccup winced.

"—and I know how much you love those. Don't think I haven't noticed you jiggling your knee, staring up at the ceiling like you'd prefer to be doing loops up in the sky. Can't you at least look like you're paying attention? It reflects poorly on the chief, that his own son can't sit still in a meeting—"

"Thatsh not fair," said Hiccup, still chewing on his eggs. He swallowed and took another bite. "I don't mind the meetings, not really. It's the villagers, they're just so—" he choked back the word _ridiculous. _

"—frustrating," he said instead.

"They're your people," Stoick said sternly. "I've managed them for more than twenty years now. You've got to be patient, and see things from their point of view. Your life will be much easier if you learn to accept things as they are."

"If I'd done that before," Hiccup retorted, "we'd still be killing dragons." He pushed himself up from the table. "Thanks for cooking, Dad. I'll see you after the race, I guess."

"Wait," said Stoick, "you didn't finish your—"

The door slammed shut on the word _breakfast._

oooo

The early morning flight with Hiccup was Toothless's favorite part of the day. He loved the feel of the freezing cold air as it whistled and flowed over his scales and pushed up against his wing membranes. He loved the glow of the Northern sun as it crept slowly above the horizon. He loved the hiss and roar of the waves below, and he loved that he had the skinny hatchling on his back all to himself, even if for only a short while.

The Berkians had something big planned for later this morning; he had heard people discussing it for some time, and there had been some kind of special meal last night in preparation, though Toothless suspected that for many of them the excitement primarily supplied an excuse to fry up a lot of food and drink more ale than usual. Toothless didn't quite understand the appeal, but after three years of living among them he'd given up trying.

His own rider at least wasn't a huge fan of those activities, usually finding a reason to leave early, which was just as well. Hiccup had gained a fair amount of height in the last year or two, each fresh growth spurt making him grouchy and tired; he'd had to retool their equipment more frequently than even he would have preferred, and recently he'd fallen asleep in the saddle, waking only when an unconscious twist of a foot pedal had sent both dragon and rider plummeting toward the ground.

"Ready for our warm up, bud?" asked the boy on his back. "Nothing weird or new this time, I promise. Just a couple of release moves, a few figure eights. The usual. Gotta save our energy for the race."

Toothless hoped that they would win whatever it was they had been preparing for. They didn't always, even when Toothless was convinced they had it in the bag. The dragon was fairly sure his rider had failed the last few final Thawfest races on purpose. Hiccup never choked when the stakes were truly high: terrifying matters of life and death—but sometimes, and in the Thawfest games in particular, Hiccup would do well until he was close to winning, then make some bizarre mistake he'd never made before and that irksome Jorgenson youth would take the lead.

Sometimes human behavior really made no sense whatsoever.

The duo flew out toward the sea-stacks off the coast of Berk. There was a particular connected pair that Hiccup especially liked, with a flat sort of land bridge that was useful for jumping over, or onto, or from. With a fluency born of frequent practice, they started to run through their repertoire: straddle jump, straddle jump/somersault combination, flying leap with handspring...after that last one, Toothless felt the boy breathing hard and knew they would move on to the flight agility exercises before he wore himself out too much. Hiccup clicked the tail fin into position, and they banked steeply, turning into the rising sun in order to make their way toward the next set of sea stacks.

Toothless prepared for his rider to lean forward in the saddle, to give the signal for him to pick up speed. Nothing happened, however, and he turned his head around slightly to see what was going on. The boy was hunched over, shielding his eyes from the sun's rays, still panting for air.

Suddenly Toothless felt his sides being gripped hard—Hiccup grabbed the left front corner of the saddle, leaned over sharply to his right and lost his breakfast to the sea below.

"Ugh," he said, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I think we should forgo the figure eights this morning, what do you say, bud? By the way, remind me not to eat my dad's scrambled eggs ever again…"

Toothless grunted quietly in amusement. If Hiccup wanted to underprepare for their first important sporting event of the winter season, that was his right. But the dragon sure wouldn't accept any guff from him afterward should they not perform their best.

oooo

_You guys wouldn't believe the flabbergasting number of revisions these two little scenes have endured. What does that mean? It means, click on the pretty 'review' button down there and tell me what you think! XOXO Freya _


	4. Chapter 4

_For a variety of reasons, I challenged myself to write a series of little race morning vignettes, one for each main character's household. I plan to post one every morning through this coming Friday. Sit back and enjoy the silliness (and review if you like...) ;-) FD_

_oooo_

Wake Up Calls, Part Two

Gytha's piercing wail broke the morning silence in the Hofferson home. Astrid woke and shot upright in bed. The dragon race!

Her heart started to pound in anticipation. She was so looking forward to this. She'd been preparing for it for ages, devising every imaginable exercise that might mimic the conditions of the contest. She'd even snuck some of her relatives' sheep out of their pens under cover of night, having talked Hiccup into tossing them at her from dragonback so she could practice catching them. (Astrid had enjoyed the experiment; Hiccup had been somewhat reluctant; the sheep had protested vigorously.)

Anyhow, they were _ready, _she and her beautiful Stormfly. All Astrid wanted was a solid warmup, to make sure all her muscles were limber, her coordination smooth. She knew her mother would expect and want her to have breakfast before she left the house, but she felt too worked up to eat much. Her plan was to grab a bite of leftovers on her way out the door, and be up in the air before you could say _Bullseye! Astrid takes the game_.

She got out of bed and pulled on her clothes, shivering in the cold, hunching her shoulder up to her ear in an attempt to block out the grating noise of her baby sister's crying. Gytha was a recent addition to the family, a very belated answer to Astrid's childhood wish for another sibling. She had a brother, Bjorn, about two years younger than Astrid; unfortunately, he had turned out shy and bookish like Fishlegs and hadn't been very much fun to spar with. Knocking him down over and over had gotten old quickly, and as little Astrid's battle skills had surpassed those of her peers, the other kids had begun to avoid her frequent requests for rematches. She had begged the gods to give her another brother or sister, one who would be as committed to a warrior's life as Astrid was; someone she could practice with and mentor.

Instead the gods had made her wait until she was nearly grown, then blessed the family with a pink, screaming demon with yellow fuzz for hair and a talent for generating dirty laundry. Astrid had had to scrub nearly all of her mother's clothes free of baby vomit multiple times already, and the kid was only a few weeks old.

She had no idea how Fishlegs' mother did it; she'd produced six children, conveniently spaced into two groups of three, with no miscarriages or stillbirths that anyone knew of, and rumor had it she was expecting a seventh baby. _And _she kept them all fed (and then some), _and _she didn't seem to mind their incessant hullabaloo. Some women were just born to be mothers, Astrid supposed—but if the last weeks of being woken during the night by her sister's harsh cries were any indication, Astrid was not one of them. Dragon babies were cute...Human babies, not so much.

Astrid's own mother, Gerda, greeted her daughter with a bleary-eyed nod as the girl came down the stairs. She was seated in a rocking chair in the corner of the open downstairs living space, patting and rocking the baby helplessly.

"I'm so glad to see you awake," she said. "I could really use your help this morning with the chores."

"The chores?" said Astrid, a hint of worry tainting her former excitement. The morning chores were usually her brother's to do; she'd worked out the arrangement with him ages ago so she could have mornings free for dragon training. "I don't do the morning chores anymore. Bjorn does. Where is he?"

"Over here," said a raspy voice, its owner sitting wrapped in a blanket by the hearth. "I'm taking the day off."

"You can't," said Astrid. Tendrils of panic wound around her lungs and squeezed. Had everybody forgotten this morning was the first official Dragon Race? Her mother hadn't attended the bonfires last night because of the baby, and her father was out on an extended fishing trip, but Astrid had been talking about the plans for the race for so long, they must know it was scheduled for today…

"Yes, he can," said her mother tiredly. "I checked him, he's got a fever. I really need you to go milk the yak, feed the chickens and gather their eggs, and then hold Gytha while I make breakfast. She's not letting me get anything done; every time I put her down she starts screaming again."

"But—I need to take Stormfly out to get warmed up for the race, we finally have a chance to beat Snotlout—"

"Astrid." Gerda's voice was tinged with irritation and Astrid realized pushing back at the chore request had been a poorly calculated choice. "I'm sorry, lass. You'll still have plenty of time to make the race. I need you this morning. Please."

"She just wants to meet up and practice loop-de-loops with her boyfriend," Bjorn said hoarsely.

"No, I don't!" Astrid objected. "Besides, I have no idea who or what you're talking about."

"Liar. Everybody saw you kiss Hiccup at Snoggletog that one year. Plus he's all you ever talk about." Her brother continued in a harsh sing-songy imitation of Astrid: "Hiccup made a new saddle for Toothless. Hiccup's finally too tall for his trousers. Hiccup's invented a new dragon trick. Hiccup likes fish stew, can he come over for supper tonight?"

"Shut up," threatened Astrid, her face hot. "One more sound out of you, and you'll be sick _and _injured."

"Do what you want to me, it's not like he'll ever want to marry you anyway—you're always so angry and violent, just like a guy—"

"I said shut up—"

"_Enough," _barked their mother. "Bjorn, stop it. Astrid, go do the chores before I keep you home from the race altogether. I can't believe you two—I'd have thought you were too grown up for this nonsense. I was up all night with your sister, and you're being so inconsiderate. It's enough to make me want to scream." She turned her attention back to the hollering Gytha, shifting her from her lap to her shoulder.

"Sorry, mama," apologized Astrid. She felt genuinely contrite, but still she couldn't resist the urge to scowl one last time at her merciless brother once Gerda's head was turned. She grabbed the milk pail with infuriated swiftness on her way out the door and headed for the yak pen.


	5. Chapter 5

Wake Up Calls, Part Three

"WAKE UP, SNOT!" his father bellowed, and the door to Snotlout's downstairs bedroom burst open. "Why are you not out of bed yet? Have you forgotten what day it is?"

"Yeah, Snotface," piped in his younger sister, her dark-haired head popping into view from behind the doorjamb. "Get up already. I'm ready for the party to start." She darted into the room and yanked the blanket off of him. "Mom told me to get this from you, it needs a wash."

"Hey!" Snotlout shouted, swiping at her with his arm and missing. "Give that back right now! It's freezing down here!"

His sister just grinned at him and wrapped his blanket around her short, square nine-year-old body. It was much too large for her; folds of fabric fell past her feet and puddled on the floor. She brought a handful of the material up to her face and sniffed.

"Yuck, she's right. Why are boys so smelly?"

"Why's your...face so weird," retorted Snotlout. "Now give it back, or you'll be sorry."

"Naw, she's helping. You should be up anyway," his father said. "What do you want to eat? I'll have your mother make it for you especially. Do you want sheep sausage? ERNA, MAKE SOME SHEEP SAUSAGE!" he hollered up the stairs that connected the basement to the ground floor of their cottage.

"Hold it," said Snotlout, but his father took his hesitation for disapproval of the menu choice.

"Or would you prefer oat cakes? ERNA, MAKE SOME OAT CAKES! NO WAIT, MAKE BOTH!"

Snotlout realized it would be impossible to talk to his father this morning. The prospect of competition always sent Spitelout into an excited frenzy, and right now his concentration was probably already compromised by the two ales he'd likely chugged as pre-race prep. The best Snotlout could do was to keep him as calm and happy as possible until after the race, and then find something to do for the rest of the day that would let him stay away from the house.

Hookfang's claws probably needed a trim. Yeah, that would work. He could make it take all afternoon if he had to. He'd get his sister to help him; his dad was a sucker for anything dragon-training-related and would leave her alone if he thought Snotlout was showing her something useful.

"I have a surprise for you, son," his father said as Snotlout got out of bed and started to change.

"Eww, you're hairy," complained his sister. "Gross. I'm leaving."

"Nobody asked you to stay and watch, 'Wax," Spitelout snapped. "Give our boy some privacy, he's got a big day ahead of him!"

Earwax rolled her eyes and left, but not before Snotlout caught her winking at him from behind his father's back.

"Guess what the surprise is, Snot," said his father.

"I dunno," said Snotlout. "Did you buy me some new treats for Hookfang?"

"No."

"Did you order me a new saddle from Gobber?"

"No." His father was nearly bursting from his eagerness to reveal whatever the secret was. Snotlout groaned to himself. It was too early in the morning for this kind of guessing game.

"I give up, Dad. What is it?"

Spitelout's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

"I said, I give up—"

"No Jorgenson ever gives up," his father interrupted, his tone severe. "I don't ever want to hear you use that phrase again. Understand?"

Snotlout felt like punching something, but instead he forced what he hoped was a sorry-looking expression onto his face and said, "Yes, sir. I won't, I promise. What's the surprise?"

"I've invited the whole Jorgenson clan over for supper," said his father. "To celebrate your victory."

The young man paled. "What? But I haven't won yet."

"But you will!" Spitelout said, and his fresh smile was somehow scarier than his previous frown. "You win every Thawfest Games, don't you? You're a lock for this. Keep that scrawny, mouthy Haddock kid knocked down where he belongs. Am I right?"

"Yeah," said Snotlout hollowly. There was no hope of getting away from the house now; he'd be needed to help set everything up for the enormous number of visitors they'd be getting.

Visitors that may or may not be disappointed by his performance, and would let him know their opinion regardless of the game's outcome.

He felt sick to his stomach. He used to feel proud of all the medals that hung right in view on the wall of their cottage. But the glorious taste of his victories was starting to turn sour, especially since he'd begun to suspect Hiccup had thrown the last couple of races, and the fact that his father didn't seem to have noticed wasn't making the idea any easier to deal with.

Of course he wanted to win; there was no sound he liked better than large groups of people chanting "Snotlout! Snotlout! Oi Oi Oi!" But he wanted to do it fair and square, and without the fear that his father would take his loss as an offense to the entire clan.

"Hey, Dad," he said. Spitelout was still standing in his bedroom door, watching him expectantly.

"Yes, son?"

"I, uh, need to be alone for a minute. Gotta get my head in the zone, get focused, you know?"

"Of course," said his father promptly. "Take your time. I'll make sure your sister and mother don't bother you with anything."

He closed the door and Snotlout was left in silence to stew in his own...his own...he couldn't think of the word, it was too long. He lay back down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the sound of his father's boots clomping overhead and the low, gentle tones of his mother's attempts to direct his attention elsewhere—if Snotlout knew his dad at all, he was following her around the house, watching over her shoulder and trying to micromanage her breakfast preparations.

Snotlout felt a pang of guilt that he'd considered taking his sister for the afternoon, leaving Erna in the house to deal with his father all day, but then his chest tightened in resentment. The woman lacked guts, he thought. She never raised her voice to his father, even when his nitpicking had her on the verge of tears. There had been times when Snotlout had wished she would just snap and give him what for. Maybe then, he hoped, Spitelout might show her the same respect he always demanded for himself.

He sat up again and reached for his trousers. The sun was barely up, but he already wished the day was over.

oooo

_Okay, this wasn't silly at all. Don't worry, tomorrow you get a dose of Thorston twinsanity. XOXO Freya_


	6. Chapter 6

**This one is a little short, word count wise, but what it lacks in length it makes up for in sheer stupidity. I'll be making up the Thorston-centric word count deficit somewhat later.**

Wake Up Calls, Part Your Mom

_Bump._

_Bump._

Ruffnut opened one eye briefly; she decided it was still too dark to open the other one also, and closed it again.

_Bump._

Why was it so cold?

_Bump._

Was that…Zippleback gas?

_Bump._

Yes it was. It was a smell as familiar as her brother's farts. She'd know it anywhere. But it didn't belong in the house.

_Bump. _She opened both eyes and watched the room swing back and forth. She turned her head sideways. The twin dragon heads that were Barf and Belch had poked through the open window; they were taking turns nudging her where she had been formerly sound asleep, hanging upside-down by her knees from the rod installed in the ceiling.

She turned her head to the other side. Tuffnut wasn't there. He must have gotten up already.

"TUFFNUT!" she yelled, still upside-down.

"What?" came the muffled reply from outside.

"Why did you open the window? Barf and Belch aren't allowed in here!"

"You wouldn't wake up," said the voice. "I got tired of waiting, and I didn't want you to hurt me."

"Well, if they blow up the house, I won't be awake anymore, that's for sure." Ruff reached up and grabbed the sleeping pole, swung her legs over her head and through the space between her arms and dropped to the floor.

"Morning, Barf," she said affectionately, scratching the dragon's skin next to its horn. "You know you're not supposed to be in here. Or you either," she said, glaring at the other head. "Dad will kill us deader than dead if he sees you. I can't believe my brother would do something so stupid…hm, wait, wrong, actually I can."

She stared at the dragon heads for a moment. Then she said,

"I guess as long as you're here, you might as well be useful." She hauled some logs over from the stack in the corner and piled them on the hearth. "Tuff, get back inside," she said loudly. "I need your help to start the fire."

He came in the door and she pointed to the wood pile. "Ready, set—"

At their combined signals, both dragon heads fired and the explosion set the hearth ablaze.

"Yeah!" They bumped fists, then hips, then heads in celebratory fashion. Only a couple of logs had gotten blasted across the room—no big deal, thought Ruff. Way less damage than last time, for sure. Not as fun to watch, though.

Her insides rumbled. "So who's making breakfast, anyway? We need to be well fueled if we're planning to beat the snot out of Snotlout—"

"And give Hiccup the hiccups," interrupted her twin.

"And send Fishlegs to sleep with the fishes, and kick Astrid's…woohoo! Somebody stop us before we hurt ourselves."

"Yes, please, breakfast," said Tuffnut. "My stomach is very much hurting already. It's eating itself."

"Dude, you got up first—why didn't you make it?"

"I thought your mom was gonna make it."

"We have the same mom. Idiot."

"Well, _you're _as dumb as a box of…something that rhymes with box."

"I know the answer, but it's dirty."

"Okay…what is it?"

"If you don't know, I'm not telling you. Moron."

"Well...you have dragon poop for brains."

"Your mom has dragon poop for brains."

"Don't talk about my mom like that."

"I'm still hungry."

"Me too. I'm so hungry I could eat dragon poop. When's breakfast?"

A tone deaf mumble drifted down to their ears then as their father descended the stairs. He reached the bottom, delivering the last lines of the old Berkian village anthem:

"…_As one, we slash, and hack, and surge…Gods! Save us from the dragon scourge!"_

"Morning, Dad," said Tuffnut.

"Morning," said Pine-Nut Thorston absently. He appeared to have dressed, not very carefully, in the dark: his socks were mismatched, his tunic on backwards, one corner of it haphazardly stuck in his trousers. He ambled over to the downstairs water jug and filled his cup, humming the song quietly to himself under his breath.

"Uh, you know we don't sing that anymore, right?" Tuffnut reminded his father. "There's no more dragon scourge?"

"You're correct, I suppose, son," admitted Pine-Nut, his tone slightly regretful, and he took a sip of water. "Bit of a shame, isn't it though—such a catchy tune. Woke up with it stuck in my head, had to let it out…"

He glanced over to the window, then—finally noticing the presence of Barf and Belch, he frowned and said, "Oi, you kids. Get those dragon heads out of here, this instant! If they damage the house again, you'll be cutting down trees for the replacement shingles using your bare hands."

Ruffnut shoved Barf and Belch out of the window and closed the shutter. "It was his fault," she said, pointing at her brother.

"She started it," countered Tuffnut. "She wouldn't wake up, and she's hecka boring when she's asleep. Plus, it's the day of the dragon race."

"I know," said their father. "Your mother went out early, said she was going to go pick some berries to make you a special breakfast. Is she back yet?"

The twins looked at each other.

"Uh-oh."

oooo

_I can't believe I just wrote bad poetry for a novella set in a fictional cartoon universe. Somebody take me to get my head examined. _

_BTW, some of you may have read a certain one of my other short stories and might be thinking "Hey, wait...didn't you mention...?" I was still working things out at that point, and left the sense of timing slightly ambiguous. There's another minor chronology thing also, which is that I had originally planned to set this story a year earlier than I ended up doing. I changed my mind, because the idea of the characters considering engagement at 17 seems nuts to me even if historically people did in fact get married younger than that. _

_Anyway, tomorrow we meet some of the Ingerman brood... _


	7. Chapter 7

Wake Up Calls, Part Five

She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. On his own he'd rescued her from a rogue group of Outcasts, pushing through their ranks with furious abandon, cutting through her bonds using only his teeth; with one swift pull he'd swept her up into the saddle and as they'd flown on Meatlug's back into the sunset she'd nestled in behind him, resting her head sideways against his cloak, the fragile fabric of her gown fluttering in the wind.

Now she stood in front of him shyly in the dark, abandoned cave in which they'd taken refuge from the approaching storm. The fire he'd built smoldered behind her, its flickering light illuminating the silky strands of her hair. _I must repay you for your kindness, noble dragon rider, _she said, _and your countenance pleases me. Let us be one._

_I couldn't, _he protested. _Surely you are a maid of unsurpassed virtue. Let me speak to your father, then we shall be wed. _

She came near to him, and pressed herself against his broad chest; her breath was sweet on his face. _My family, my clan, my tribe, are all dead, _she said; _please, help me forget my grief._

He leaned in to kiss her, then hesitated. _Wait, _he said, _I don't have time; I have to get ready for the dragon race… _

_The dragon race. _

The dragon race?

Fishlegs opened his eyes abruptly. "Wake up, Fishy," said his little brother Eelnose. His face was so close that Fishlegs could smell the oatcakes on his breath. He had just turned five and possessed the age-appropriate lack of concern for personal space. "It's the day of the dragon race."

"It'll be hard for me to race with you sitting on me like this," he said, as the last lovely vestiges of his dream faded mournfully into the distance. "Unless you want me to use you as a bludgeon or a shield."

"Ha ha!" his brother pushed up with his feet, let himself plop heavily back down on Fishlegs' gut, and the air rushed from the teen's lungs.

"Oof!" he said, coughing. "You do actually want me to win, don't you? I'll need to be able to breathe."

"Meh," said Eelnose. "I think Snotlout's gonna win again."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," said Fishlegs, a bit hurt. "What if…" he rolled over suddenly, pinning his small sibling beneath his enormous torso, "I manage to squash Snotlout like a bug?"

"That couldn't happen," said Eelnose. He squirmed, trying unsuccessfully to get free. "Hookfang can catch on fire! He'll burn you up."

"No he won't," teased Fishlegs.

"Yeah, he will!"

"No, he won't!"

"Get up! You're too heavy."

"Nope. Not until you promise to root for Team Gronckle."

Before Eelnose could respond in the rebellious negative, the fifth-born Ingerman child ran into the room, skidding through the open doorway in her stocking feet.

"Hey, guys," she said, "Mom says get downstairs for breakfast—ooh, piggy pile!" She sprinted toward the bed and launched herself into the air, scrambling on top of Fishlegs' back. He stiffened himself so that the extra weight wouldn't completely crush his little brother underneath.

"Look at me!" cried the girl, and flapped her arms rapidly. "I'm flying! Bank right! No, left!"

"Barrel roll," said Fishlegs, tipping steeply sideways. "Time to get off, Squidknee."

"No!" She gripped tightly to the back of his tunic, and when he stood up from the bed, she hung on, her short legs flailing for purchase around his waist. He ignored the sharp tugging on his nightclothes and walked to the door. After a few seconds, her little hands lost their strength and she dropped to the floor and she and her brother followed Fishlegs downstairs toward the scent of breakfast.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he said. "You could have gotten me up sooner. I would have helped get things ready."

Termagant turned to him and smiled, wiping her hands on a towel hung from her apron.

"That's all right, son," she said. "I wanted to be sure you got enough sleep before the race. It's high time these little ne'er-do-wells started pulling their weight more around here, anyway. Isn't that right, Codliver?" …This last question was aimed at the eight-year-old boy sitting in a corner, his nearsighted eyes absorbed in a pamphlet on Changewings excerpted from the Dragon Manual.

"What?" he answered uncomprehendingly. "Did you say something, Mom?"

"That's exactly what I mean," said their mother. "In his defense," she said to Fishlegs, "he did fill in a bit by starting the fire this morning, and he made sure Squid didn't overturn the milk pail."

"Where are the others?" asked Fishlegs.

"Sharktoes is out on the boat this morning with your father, and Turbot got called out very early to help with a breech birth. She's been walking around in a sleepy daze all week, poor girl—last year's Winter storms appear to have resulted in a flood of Autumn babies, and they all want to be born in the middle of the night, it seems. After the race I'm going to make her take a nap, even if she is sixteen—"

"Did you know that Changewing acid can burn through leather?" interrupted Codliver suddenly. Details of childbirth were about the furthest thing possible from his sphere of interest.

"Yes," said Fishlegs, shivering slightly. "I did."

"Cool," said Codliver.

"No, it's not," said Fishlegs. "Dragons are amazing, and fun, but they can still hurt or even kill people, even if they don't mean to. We learn about them so we can treat them with understanding and respect."

"Okay," said Codliver, in the tone of someone used to agreeing with his elders so that he could be left alone to do as he liked, and stuck his nose back into the folded parchment.

"Speaking of dragons hurting people," said Termagant, "show me your arm, Eel my boy. I want to make sure it's healing. I still can't fathom why you would decide to tease a Terrible Terror like that. Your shrieking almost pierced my poor eardrums."

"I didn't!" whined Eelnose. "I wasn't teasing him, I just had a fish from the basket, and he jumped and bit me."

"Sure," said his mother. "Anyway, it looks much better today. Just don't rub or scratch at it, all right?"

She looked out the window, then, and seeing the amount of daylight coming through, she hurriedly piled a plate high with oatcakes and honey and handed it to Fishlegs.

"Eat up, son," she said, "it's getting late. You don't need to stay to help me get this sorry lot ready, your father promised he'd only do a quick fishing run and come back so we can all go over to the arena together. How are you feeling? Ready to kick some tail, as your friends put it?"

"Rah, rah, rah," said Fishlegs. "I hope you haven't bet anything valuable on this event."

"Nope," replied his mother cheerfully. "Just a week of laundry services, against the Svensons. They're rooting for Astrid. Also, they have two sets of twins under the age of three. So you'd better win, or we'll all be scrubbing diapers until our hands bleed."

"Go Team Gronckle!" yelled Squidknee, provoking her younger brother's glare.

oooo

_Please review and place your bets, while I excuse myself to go put the final touches on the halftime show. -FD_


	8. Chapter 8

**_We, the Publicity Staff at Freya'sDaughter Productions, regret to convey the following sad news to our loyal viewers: last night, due to an unfortunate security oversight on the part of our Assistant Production Manager, FDP's resident goats, Munchy and Crunchy, gained entry to our film archives and attempted to consume the reel containing the footage of the first official Berkian Dragon Race. While it is a devastating loss, please rest assured that both the goats and our Assistant Production Manager have received appropriate disciplinary action. _**

**_To our knowledge, the only other surviving record of the race is in the possession of DreamWorks Animation Studios. Unfortunately, despite our earnest entreaties, their archival staff (understandably) have refused to allow us access to their copy. On a happier note, we have it on good authority that the studio plans to release the footage in November, under the title "Dawn of the Dragon Racers." Until said release, we hope you will enjoy the following scene, which we managed to salvage from what remained of the goats' depredations upon the film reel._**

**_Please accept our sincere apologies for any disappointment suffered as a result of our staff member's negligence, and we thank you in advance for your continued support. _**

**_Best wishes,_**

_**Freya'sDaughter Productions**_

oooo

The sun was high overhead. Ten laps had come and gone, and the massive horn blew to signal the halfway rest.

Everyone was grateful for this—the spectators in particular, many of whom after ten laps worth of ale and excitement sorely needed to excuse themselves. The score stood thus: Snotlout, four sheep; Hiccup, five; Astrid, five; Ruffnut and Tuffnut, three; Fishlegs, two.

_It's still anyone's game_, said those cheering for Team Gronckle.

_He's got this, he just needs to keep his head on straight and his eyes open_, said the Jorgensons to each other.

The numbers of sheep scored were duly recorded, and the sheep themselves were removed from the scoring nets and given a rubdown before being taken to their starting positions for the second half.

One by one the dragon riders landed in the arena, dismounted, and walked into a massive stall built into the side of the ring, repurposed for this occasion as a sort of preparation and recovery room. Inside were benches, snacks, buckets and jars of water, and first aid materials in case anyone needed bandaging. Vikings were extraordinarily hardy, but there was no telling what might happen in the course of an event like this, despite the riders' general reluctance to truly hurt each other.

(Most of the riders' reluctance, anyway; there was at the moment some debate among the crowd whether that particular sentiment was indeed shared by Astrid, who, in lap two, had jumped onto Hookfang's neck and essentially bludgeoned a sheep out of Snotlout's possession—the sheep was fine, but 'Lout had a nice bruise on his forehead below his helmet line.)

Hiccup sat down with a breath of relief onto one of the benches placed against the far wall, and took off his prosthetic. His leg had started to ache in lap five, after a particularly energetic lunge from dragonback in pursuit of a sheep carried by the twins. He checked it over for damage; there was nothing obviously wrong, but he decided to wrap it in an extra layer just in case.

"Hey, Snotlout," he called, as his associate came in, the others close behind. "Throw me one of those bandages on the table, would you?"

"No problem," said Snotlout. He picked up the rolled bandage and relayed it to Hiccup with a graceful underhand toss. "What's the deal? I can't believe you missed that last sheep, before the horn blew. You went right over it. 'Pride of Berk,' my sexy, muscular—"

"I'm fine. The sun was in my eyes," said Hiccup dryly, unable to resist a poke at his cousin's performance during their first Dragon Training skirmish. He usually fought hard against the temptation to get back at the other teens for how they had treated him. The bullying was years ago, now, the disdain replaced by essentially friendly comraderie and respect. But he was frustrated with himself for having missed that sheep, he hadn't eaten anything since his father's ill-fated eggs, and the mild pinch behind his eyes he'd noticed at breakfast was developing into a rather spiteful headache, all of which had eroded his usual tolerance for Snot's jealous ribbing.

The others laughed at the jibe, and Tuffnut slapped him on the shoulder. "Good one, bro."

Snotlout muttered something low and baleful-sounding under his breath. He took off his helmet and started to massage the bruise on his head.

Astrid pulled off her circlet, which had slipped sideways during the earlier kerfuffle with Snotlout. She wiped dirt-smudged fingers on her blouse to remove most of the grime, combed out her bangs and repositioned the headband before taking stock of the rest of the room. She perked up at the sight of the pile of goodies on the table.

"Wow, look at that spread. Is that all for us?" She picked up a sweet bun and bit into it with her square, pretty teeth. "Mm," she said. "Tastes like victory."

"Like _my _victory, maybe," said Fishlegs. He grabbed a towel and wiped sweat from the back of his neck. "I helped my mom make those yesterday—that was the first time I've worked with her that she hasn't watched me like a hawk to make sure I don't overknead the dough. As far as I'm concerned, I'm already a winner. By the way, she also made those mini goat pastries over there. They're amazing, you should try them."

"Argh," said Astrid. "I don't get it. Is she half goddess, or something? Does she not need to sleep? How does she find the time to make all this stuff? My mom only has the three of us, and she barely gets anything done."

"I have no idea," he replied. "She's been like that ever since I can remember. I help when I can, but I think she just lets me do it to be nice."

"At least your moms actually do things," complained Ruffnut. "We had to go looking for ours this morning. That's why we were almost late for the start of the race. She was out talking to the trees again."

"How about we all shut up about our moms?" Snotlout took a violent swig from a water jug. "In case you've forgotten, one of us doesn't even have one—"

"Are you really going there?" said Astrid indignantly, beginning to assume a posture that suggested she was planning to add to Snotlout's tally of bruises. "I can't believe—"

"No, no, that's not what I meant! I meant, it's not nice to talk about, because his mom is dead—"

"Ooh, nice try, Snotface, but it's not gonna work on me—"

"What the Hel, why don't you ever believe me—"

"It's okay, guys," interrupted Hiccup. "It's really not a big deal. I don't remember my mother, because I was only a few months old when she died. And anyway, Fishlegs' mom practically _was _my mom for awhile."

"No kidding," said Fishlegs. "You know, she still tells stories about you to the younger kids, to warn them what not to do. Like, don't try to fly by throwing yourself off the stairs head first."

"Glad my childhood concussion is being used as an object lesson to the next generation," replied Hiccup with a wry grin. He finished bandaging his leg, replaced his prosthetic and reached for a jar of water. "How's your little brother, by the way? My dad told me about last night's incident. It must have happened after I left."

"Yeah, he's fine, it's just a welt. He shouldn't have been walking around with a raw fish anyway; he was practically asking for it. I have no idea what was going through his head."

"He's five, right?" said Astrid. "And a boy. So…probably nothing."

"I resent that," said Tuffnut. "I had plenty of things going through my head when I was five."

"Yeah," said his sister. "Like 'Kill Ruffnut, kill, kill.' Or 'Ooh, pretty sun, why don't we stare at it.' Genius things like that."

"Exactly," said Tuffnut.

"_Anyway," _said Hiccup, "I think we should make sure we meet tomorrow morning. Eelnose isn't the only kid to get bitten by a Terror recently, and my dad is worried they're getting out of hand—that there are too many of them. He thinks we can figure out some way to reduce the population, to help prevent them from being so territorial."

"Like how?" asked Snotlout. "Take their eggs?"

"And do what with them, exactly?" replied Astrid. "We'd have a bunch of fertilized Terror eggs that will go poof and make baby Terrors. How is that a solution?"

"We could keep them from breeding somehow," said Fishlegs.

"Not unless we figure out how to tell the girl Terrors from the boys," said Ruffnut. "And we can't exactly pull up their skirts to check for lady parts."

"Heh," said Tuffnut. "You said lady parts."

The maturity level of the conversation dropped sharply from that point onward, as Tuffnut and Snotlout became increasingly speculative about dragons' reproductive anatomy—Hiccup finally felt forced to intervene in defense of the girls' ears, and was accused of being bossy and overprotective ("Did we say we were offended?" demanded Astrid, before threatening to lay him out on the ground gasping like a beached Icelandic cod).

Excited by the prospect of fisticuffs, the twins decided it would be great fun to engage in it themselves, with the brilliant addition of the mini goat pies—which in turn upset Fishlegs, who had hoped there would be food remaining after the race and was not pleased about his mother's baked goods being used as projectile weapons.

Then Gobber was standing at the entrance, an amused smirk on his bulgy face.

"Five minute warning, Vikings," he said. "Hope you're well rested."

Sulking, the teens drained their water jugs, grabbed their helmets and gear and headed back outside. Hiccup lagged behind the others, pausing as he approached his mentor.

"Hey, um, Gobber?" he said hesitantly.

The smith frowned. "What is it, lad. Time's runnin' low."

Hiccup looked down, fiddling with the straps on his flight harness.

"I—uh, I need to ask you something…I could use some advice."

Gobber stared at his apprentice, scraggy blond eyebrows raised in expectation, not unwilling to receive the question but somewhat puzzled by the timing.

"About what? Here's some advice—how about you grab the sheep instead of flying over them? I have a bet set up with Hoark, and if you lose this game I'll have to shear all the yaks in his herd this coming Spring. Don't disappoint me."

At this rejoinder the Pride of Berk's nerve failed him.

"Never mind. I'll…ask you later."

He walked out into the ring, his face burning. Gobber looked after him, bemused, and followed him out to get the game restarted.

oooo

Final score: Fishlegs, fourteen (four regular sheep, plus the Black Sheep); Hiccup, nine; Astrid, nine; Snotlout, seven; the Thorston twins, five.

Audience verdict: a delightful complement to the annual Thawfest games; a bit high-scoring, perhaps—but that was easily fixed, they could simply reduce the number of available sheep on the ground. And it had been so _easy _to set up, too. They could have more than one race a year, if they liked. It would certainly make the betting more fun and interesting. Not to mention all the opportunities for merriment that would be provided by an ongoing, regular series (young Gustav Larson was already working out a scheme to make money, by paying some of the smaller children a token percentage of the amount gained through their sales of snacks and beverages).

All in all, a splendid thing—certainly much better than Mulch's dragon-wrestling idea. Bless their Chief for his part in its conception, even if his own son's performance had proved a tad disappointing for him, hey? That lad was simply too nice for his own good; he must have wanted to see his childhood friend finally be the best at something.

The Jorgensons retreated from the arena in a black mood, muttering something about _bias in the rules…robbed…he'd just been off his game, must have been the sun overhead…the next one should start later in the day, to give everyone a fair chance…_etcetera_._

Over the moon at his son's victory, Team Gronckle's father invited the teens over to the Ingerman house for supper that same evening: the Mead Hall being unavailable due to a recent strange and unexplained accident involving three half-grown Zipplebacks and fifteen barrels of tar.

The invitation was accepted by all except poor Snotlout, who would have vastly preferred it to the dour clan meal that awaited him (not that his sense of family pride would allow him to tell anyone). In preparation, they went home to perform their usual chores. Life went on, race or no race, and winter was on its way.

oooo

_A/N: In case anyone reading this lacks a sense of humor, I DON'T OWN ANY OF THIS MESS, especially not anything to do with the upcoming short that will be on the HTTYD 2 DVD (can't wait, y'all). -FD_


	9. Chapter 9

Birds and Bees

After the race, Hiccup spent most of the remaining daylight hours in the forge: he came in after the midday meal, tied on his apron with a mumble of apology and set to work.

_He'd better feel sorry_, Gobber thought, a bit resentfully—he was half of a mind to drag the boy out with him in the Spring to help with the yak shearing job that the smith was now honor bound to accomplish. He wasn't the only one disappointed with the outcome of the first Dragon Race; in fact he suspected that a large amount of the general enthusiasm for repeating the event came from individuals wishing to get out of having to make good on bets gone poorly.

He kept a surreptitious eye on the lad over the course of the afternoon, waiting in vain for Hiccup to bring up the question that had seemed so urgently important earlier. Whatever it might be, he had apparently chosen to keep mum about it, but it was clearly on his mind—he looked pale, even in the heat of the smithy, and as the day went on his focus and accuracy of work deteriorated to a frustrating degree.

Finally fed up with watching his young helper flail and ruin the day's projects, Gobber set him the supposedly easy task of forging nails. Nails were one of the first things beginning smiths learned to make, and Hiccup had produced thousands of them since the beginning of his apprenticeship. But after he'd managed to mangle five nails out of his first ten, Gobber had had enough.

"What's the matter with you today?" he demanded. "You've messed up Mulch's stirrups, miscut the leather for three new saddles, you stepped on Grump's tail and startled him so much he almost blew up the place, and you canna even make nails. You'll be takin' yer own arm off, next."

"Nothing's wrong," said Hiccup, "I just had a bad morning, is all—"

"Come on, I know there's something bothering you, it's plain as day. Out with it, or I'll make you polish and organize my entire collection of prosthetic tools again."

Hiccup put his hammer aside and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. As he turned to respond, the afternoon shadows brought out the sharpening contours of his serious young face, and the smith realized with mild shock that the word _boy _wouldn't apply to him for much longer.

When had his apprentice grown up, Gobber wondered; when had the lad traded in his round, childish features in favor of his father's jawline, his mother's cheekbones? And for how long had Gobber been looking _over _at him, instead of _down_? Granted, he wouldn't pose much of a physical threat to any of the other men in the village—he was still slim as a young tree, and his coordination hadn't improved all that much (in fact today it was downright awful), but he no longer looked as though the heavy objects he lifted might cause his spine to fold on itself like a forge bellows.

"Gobber," said Hiccup in a low voice, and he glanced quickly around the vicinity, as if to make sure no one was around who might overhear. "I can't believe I'm asking this, but…I need some advice about girls."

The peg-legged smith suddenly dropped the awl he'd been holding, nearly puncturing the boot on his remaining foot. The tool rolled away from him, and he swiped it back toward himself with the long attachment on his arm and picked it up.

"Well, laddie," he replied matter-of-factly, trying to hide his pride at having been consulted in a matter of such apparent gravity. "I'm surprised your father hasn't had The Talk with you by now, you being grown and all, but here goes. When two kids like each other—presuming they're already married, of course; you can't be too careful about these things—"

"That's not what I meant!" Hiccup choked. "I, er, already know that stuff, at least, I think I do, gods know the other guys talk enough about it—and they are total bilgesnipes, by the way, I could never do some of those things to—" he broke off suddenly, his face flushing scarlet, and he picked up his hammer again and concentrated fiercely on the task in front of him.

"Well, what then?" said Gobber impatiently.

"I mean—" hammer came down hard against metal, "—how do you know if a girl likes you? The…you know—the—" _clang!_ "—marrying type of liking."

Gobber's jaw slackened in disbelief. He was usually of the opinion that his young protégé was one of the cleverest Vikings ever conceived on Berk, or on any other island within a month's sail, for that matter. But sometimes he said things that caused Gobber to doubt the validity of that opinion, and this question was that sort of thing.

It was a fact generally acknowledged by much of Berk, that his apprentice and his blond lady friend with the Deadly Nadder (and even more deadly axe) would make a match of it someday. Hiccup's infatuation with Astrid had been a source of gentle amusement for the village's adults ever since he'd hit puberty (they'd assumed it was puberty, anyway—his voice had gotten squawky, though he'd refused to _grow_), and after the events of the battle with the dragon queen, Astrid had plainly transferred her fierce loyalty, once devoted to killing dragons, to the young Viking with only one foot but a kind heart and a head full of plans and ideas.

All right, so they weren't exactly walking around the village holding hands, or getting caught canoodling in the bushes (as far as Gobber was aware—Astrid's occasional congratulatory kiss notwithstanding), but their support of each other was obvious. If Hiccup couldn't see that the girl loved him, he didn't deserve to find out yet.

So Gobber decided to tease him a bit.

"They get all giggly," he offered, "and they'll follow you around, pretending they have business in your neck o'the woods when they really don't. And they'll ask you weird questions to try and guess whether you'll make a good family man, like, 'Wasn't that baby at the last naming ceremony cute? What would _you _have named her?' Stuff like that."

The smith grinned toothily at Hiccup's horrified, incredulous look. "But that's so…sneaky," he complained. "Why can't they just say what they mean?"

"My boy," said Gobber, "if I had access to that level of knowledge, I'd have enough money to buy a thousand sheep, and a set of gold teeth for every dragon on Berk."

oooo

_Ten points and a plate of sheep kebabs to anyone who correctly guesses both of the cultural references made in this chapter and puts them in a review. Hint: one of the works alluded to is a classic piece of English literature, and one is...well...not. -FD_


	10. Chapter 10

**_A/N-The results are in, and the winner is: _**

**_Okay, nobody guessed both references correctly, but I'm nothing if not generous so I'm going to distribute points as follows._**

**_The Queen of Valencia Torgue: "canoodling" was a fantastic guess, but no, I just wanted to hear Gobber say the word in my head with a Scottish accent. You get first pick of the sheep kebabs for playing, though._**

**_ImpossibleGirlClara: Pride and Prejudice is right! I paraphrased it a bit to make it less obvious. Five points._**

**_Darkmatt3r97, fictionadict24, and faeblossom: the word I originally picked was "pigs," but I decided that was lame. Anyway, bingo! Five points each._**

**_Divide up the remaining sheep kebabs amongst yourselves as you wish. I should warn those of you who haven't read "Wedding in the Mead Hall," though: you might want to stick them in the microwave before you eat them. Just sayin'._**

**_This will be the last update until I finish writing the Ingerman house party and its aftermath. Did I say writing? I meant transcribing film footage..._**

**_oooo _**

Chez Twins

Ruffnut Thorston stood in her parents' upstairs bedroom, braiding her hair in front of the candlelit mirror. In the cloudy reflection given off by its scratched surface she saw herself scowl in displeasure, comb the half-completed series of plaits out loose and start again.

"Don't go," said Iona. She was seated on the bed, already changed into her night shift, her knees drawn in childlike fashion up to her chest, watching her daughter as she prepared for the twins' evening out.

At the sound of her mother's voice, Ruff's focus shifted from her own mirror image to that of the figure behind her. Her frown deepened as she saw Iona's finger reach down to pick at the bandages wrapped around her lower legs, applied after the twins had brought her back from the woods early that morning.

"We won't be out late, Mom," she said. "And leave those alone. There's nothing special or cool about Terrible Terror scars."

She continued working on her braid, twining and twining until she reached the bottom satisfactorily, and tied the end with a length of leather cord. She brought another section of her hair around to the front and divided it similarly, the bright, smooth, golden strands flashing through her thin expert fingers.

"You have a goddess's hair, lass," said her mother. "Got it from your father's side. All the Thorstons are blond." Iona's hair was long like her daughter's, but brown and wiry. She had taken it down from its usual haphazard daytime knot, and it hung messily around her narrow shoulders.

"You have pretty hair too, Mom," said Ruff. It was the third time they'd had the conversation this week.

"Do you really think so?"

"Yeah, Mom," said Ruff. She finished her other braid and picked up a whalebone comb from the dressing table. "Do you want me to comb it for you?"

"Okay." Her mother turned around cooperatively, and Ruffnut started to pick through the stiff tangles, trying not to pull too hard but also hoping to finish before they had to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"I told you. We're going to Fishlegs' house for supper, because he won the dragon race today."

"Did he now," remarked Iona.

"Yeah, Mom. You watched the game. Remember?"

"Oh, aye. I remember drinking a lot of ale and eating something tasty on a stick. It was a very entertaining race. I especially liked that pair on the two-headed thing, what's it called?"

"A Hideous Zippleback," said Ruffnut.

"That's it. Who was riding it? They looked familiar."

"That was us, Mom."

"Oh, wonderful! How did you fare?"

"We lost, Mom."

"That must have been disappointing."

"Whatever. We'll get 'em next time," Ruffnut promised. After a few more minutes working on her mother's hair, it became clear that it would take far more time than she had in order to detangle it properly. She sectioned it as best she could and put it in a thick braid in an attempt to preserve what she'd accomplished so far.

"Tuff!" she called. "Are you ready?"

She picked up her belt from where it lay on the bed and clasped it around her tiny waist, took another look in the mirror and smoothed the top of her hair.

"Where did you say you were going?" asked her mother again.

"Fishlegs' house."

"Right. You look pretty, lass. Will there be any nice boys there?"

Ruff wasn't sure how to answer this question without giving her mother the wrong idea.

"Sort of."

"How about that charming red-headed boy—the one with the fancy metal foot and the scary black dragon."

"He's not charming, Mom, I've seen him roll his eyes at us when he thinks we're not looking. And he's weird—he likes to break stuff, which is great, but then he just makes new kinds of stuff out of it. Besides, he's into someone else."

"How about the fat blond one, then? What did you call him? Fishfeet?"

"Fishlegs. And no way. He reads too much, and talks too much about what he reads. He makes my brain hurt."

"How about that other blond one, the skinny one with the long ponytails in front?"

"That's me, Mom," said Tuffnut, having come up the stairs and into the doorway. "Geez, Ruff, finish with your hair already. Everybody's gonna snarf all the food before we get there if you don't hurry up."

"I'm done, okay?" Ruff shot him an annoyed glance. She bent over and kissed her mother on the forehead.

"We'll be back a bit later, Mom. Stay in the house, and go to bed. Dad's still in the shop working."

"Have fun, kids."

"Oh, we always do. Bye!"


End file.
